


Crack Some Eggs, Make Some Omelette

by whatsallthisabout



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Cooking, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2016-09-29
Packaged: 2018-08-18 12:17:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8161846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatsallthisabout/pseuds/whatsallthisabout
Summary: Wherein the Doctor helps the Master in more ways than one.





	

Crack-splash. “Damnit.” Another egg added to the bowl…along with about half of its eggshell. Attempting a ‘calming breath’, whatever the hell that meant, he scooped out the offensive shells. Then the Master picked up a fork and scrambled the bleeding yolks into the clear viscous fluid…and managed to spray one wall of the kitchen with it. 

That was it.

Five minutes later, the glass bowl, sparsely chopped onions and stainless steel knife joined the egg dripping down the wall, the knife swaying from side-to-side. Why the hell did this always have to happen to him?! When he cooked, the ingredients seemed to just slip into place: the eggs ran smoothly out of their shells, the potato skins uncurled without ceremony, the lettuce leaves that were coaxed, not shredded, from their bundles. 

“But when I try to make anything half decent for him, I-“ He managed about 7 different languages, carrying out many a name that would make many a sailor blush. He picked up the chopping board and broke it across the edge of the marble countertop, jamming a splinter in the process. 

“Oh-w, stupid piece of-“ he was in the middle of cursing the cursed thing, swivelling around for something to dig it out when his crazed brown eyes ran across the Doctor’s calm ones. He froze, mind going frustratingly blank. What could he say? He had gotten a lot better, but his rage still manifested into violence on the odd occasion.

“I’m not sure if I should be impressed, or if I should run. What do you suggest?” The Doctor uncrossed his arms, pushed off the doorway he was leaning against and strolled into the kitchen towards the ruined wall. He ran a finger through the dripping egg and tasted it. “Not enough pepper, love.” He stepped over the triangles of glass on the floor and gingerly pulled the knife out of the panelling, wincing at the gash it left on the woodwork. The Master shadowed his frown. 

He finally circled around to the Master, who stood in front of the oven, twisting his hands into the ties of the apron he’d humoured himself into wearing. He had his head down, so he didn’t see the love that shined from the Doctor’s eyes. He thought he’d see anger or disappointment, and hid his gaze. The Doctor slipped two fingers under his chin, and lifted it. He could see now, and his resolve softened, and he fell into his open arms.

“I’m so sorry, so so sorry, Doctor. I couldn’t seem to help it, i-it just happened, I got frustrated and it b-built, and came out, I’m sorry, I’ll fix it, I tried to cook for you…” The Master continued for a few more minutes, not letting the Doctor get a word in edgeways, tears rolling down red cheeks. The Doctor was speechless, which is rare. He slid down to the floor, holding him to him as he leant against the cupboards and pulling his shoulders up.

“Hey, hey hey, it’s perfectly fine, love, I don’t care about the damage or anything. I love you okay? I want to help you with anything, you don’t have to do it yourself.” The last few words were muffled, as he nuzzled into the Master’s hair and all protests were silenced as he gasped. He wound his arms all the way around the Master’s torso, smothering any residual shaking. The Master relaxed into the Doctor’s grip, his legs wrapping around his chest. There they sat, holding each other up, on the kitchen floor, for an hour as the Master’s heart rate slowed down.

***

“Now, what was it you wanted to make for me? Something eggy I assume, from the stuff I found splattered on the wall?” The Master blushed at the Doctor’s words, still feeling a little shame from his outburst, and nodded.

“Okay!” The Doctor clapped his hands. “We’ll need chives, 5 eggs, bacon, capsicum, cheese, onions, salt, pepper, and red wine,” he said. The Master raised an eyebrow. 

“What? Red wine goes with everything, you’ll see.” The Doctor began scrambling around the kitchen, somehow maintaining some resemblance of grace as he tipped ingredients into a pan the Master had heating up on the stove. He didn’t bother to measure carefully, like the Master had tried to do, which made the Master simmer. Angry, disjointed thoughts began to whisper behind the curtains of his subconscious. The eggs before him sloshed out as he stirred blindly. 

The Doctor must have noticed this, as he stopped his dashing to stand behind him, hands behind his back as he watched. He could practically feel the heat radiating off him..or was it the stove? He should do something.

He placed his hands on the Master’s stomach, causing him to flinch and tense. Muscles rippled under his warm hands as he trailed his fingers across the dark shirt he was wearing, and wrapped his arms around the blonde one, nuzzling his neck as he stirred. He watched as he stirred with vigour, and shook some oregano and basil into the pan, running his palm along the Master’s arm on the way up to his stiff shoulder, which he rubbed. He was almost holding him up, with one arm across his abdomen and one across his shoulder, holding the Master back from himself. He kissed his cheek, and slowly moved his hands. 

The tightness slowly relaxed as the Doctor murmured soft words to him, reaching out to lay his right arm along the Master’s right one and guiding the rigid circles of the wooden spoon into smooth ones. The Master’s concentration was lost among the tone and feel of the Doctor, his long body pressed up behind him. It was his touch that had him shaking the spoon, causing minutiae waves in the uncooked egg. 

Eventually, his head lolled back onto the Doctor’s shoulder, and he pressed a kiss to his temple, taking over the actual cooking that was supposed to be happening. The Doctor kept one eye on the sizzling omelette, and his mouth on the Master’s neck, nipping and kissing his way down his jugular, but the Master wasn’t feeling defensive in the least. With his head tipped back, he pushed back against the frame of the Doctor with one hand on his thigh, panting softly as nerve endings sparked. The Doctor smirked against the sensitive skin as he traced shapes with his tongue. The Master gasped, the sound a wet intake of air, when teeth met ear, grazing the edges of the cartilage. 

The spoon was dropped at that point, and the Doctor turned the Master slowly, reaching to move the pan from the stove to the countertop. The Master watched as he turned off the hotplate and dunked the spoon into the full sink, then turned back to him. 

Warm arms touched him again. “Now, where were we?”

Needless to say, eggs weren’t the only thing consumed that night.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. No one reads this bit, but we really are thankful.


End file.
